A Herculean Task
by soul vacation
Summary: AU where Sherlock and John attend the same uni and become unlikely friends. Response to a prompt on the BBC Sherlock kinkmeme.
1. Chapter 1

Everyone at uni had a reputation. Fact.

Everyone at uni acted according to their reputation. Not fact.

Everyone at uni was a blasted, withering, bloody idiot. Fact - disputed, currently under observation, results indicating the initial hypothesis was correct.

Sprawled out against the grass, Sherlock debated his options. He could spring up, take each of these cretins out one by one and shame them, sending them running back to their respective girlfriends for pats and mending, or he could lie here until they grew bored and continue about his day. The fact that he was physically fully capable of boxing them into bloody pulps was something that he wanted to keep relatively unknown, as that sort of thing just drew attention to himself and he was at uni to _study_, not find himself the source of unwanted esteem/censure/hatred/general attention. Distraction was not permissible, and given what the school therapist had indicated (useless, unsolicited information) he would largely be left well enough alone if he kept his mouth shut. He _provoked_ the young men, apparently, with his observations, which indicated neatly that his current predicament was his own fault and he had no one to blame for his rapidly bruising eye than himself.

Well. He didn't quite agree. Thompson should not have been shagging Watson's girlfriend, and they could hardly blame Sherlock for noticing and pointing it out. Obvious, wasn't it? He hadn't even realized he'd mentioned it aloud until Watson turned to him with surprise on his face, and Thompson had vehemently denied the situation, but of course, Sherlock's pride had gotten the better of him. He'd felt challenged, and so he'd stood in the lunch line, gripping his tray between spidery fingers and calmly, blandly related all the details that clearly indicated Thompson's guilt. Generally, that was the part where he was either spat on, hauled outside, or otherwise generally humiliated in front of his peers (or at least the attempt was made; Sherlock rarely gave two shits what his classmates thought of him) and so he braced himself, eyes flicking to the tray to make certain there was nothing that would make a great mess if it was flipped onto his chest.

And the attempt was made, make no mistake, but the boy - Watson - had thrust a hand out, palm in his friend(?)'s chest, and told him to back off. Sherlock had been intrigued for a moment, because he could clearly see anger - clenched jaw, slightly flushed face, tightened muscles at the corners of his eyes, hands flexing at his sides - but it hadn't seemed to be directed at Sherlock. Hm. Curious.

He had flicked his gaze between the two, and when it became apparent nothing else would be said, he wrote it off as the exception that proved the rule. Sherlock had brushed past without further word, chin thrust out slightly as he made his way to his habitual corner table to eat alone, and had been left alone. Of course he watched Watson and Thompson have their tense conversation, and though he was sufficient at reading lips, he almost didn't have to; it was all very obvious by their posture, the duration of the conversation, and the angry way they parted at the end. Watson hadn't even eaten his lunch.

Confrontation with the girlfriend, he supposed. If he was supposed to feel pangs of regret at causing a domestic he didn't, because a relationship that involved two people who weren't honest with one another wasn't much of one at all. He did, however, feel minor annoyance when he was later intercepted on his way to the labs, unceremoniously hauled about by his collar, decked, and thrown down onto the grass.

Expelling a short hiss of a breath, he rose up on his elbows, his scowl dark and mutinous underneath tousled curls. Not his fault, his brain reminded him, and yet he was constantly being blamed. To defend himself, or just wait for the moment to pass? Decisions, decisions-

"Thompson!"

His assailant, bent at the waist and scooping to grab Sherlock once more (much to the pleased cheering of his friends, Sherlock thought waspishly), visibly started. There was the blond again, striding across the grass and toward the collected group with a very set, resigned look on his face. Disappointment, Sherlock thought immediately, already recording and organizing all of the new information that Watson was providing. Anger. Betrayal. Rigid shoulders, tight lips, left hand raised halfway in a move that was not of aggression but could quickly become it.

Thompson looked down into Sherlock's face, expression contorting, and spit in it.

Sherlock jerked his head to the side, more insulted by the puerility behind the act than the spitting itself, but he didn't have much time to be offended by it. His shoulders hit the grass again and he brought a hand up, smearing the filth from his face as best he could, muttering under his breath all the while.

"You lot, all of you, get. This is ridiculous. Ought to be ashamed of yourselves," Watson was adding severely, and he placed both hands against Thompson's shoulders, shoving him back hard. "Thrashing a fellow for being honest because you've been found out. I'm disgusted."

Sherlock watched with dispassion as a collective breath was held, perhaps waiting to see if Thompson would throw a punch at his mate Watson as well, but they were disappointed if that was the desired outcome. One by one they began to wander off, shaking their heads and talking amongst one another, leaving Sherlock alone with his would-be savior.

He was fingering the edge of his eye, annoyed, when Watson dropped himself to the grass beside him and huffed out a breath. "Right bunch of prats. Sorry," he added, leaning over to brush some grass off Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock tensed, leaning away with almost comical swiftness, but it didn't seem to amuse Watson. After a beat of awkward silence, Sherlock said flatly, "You've done your heroic deed, now you might as well scurry off. I've no need of you."

Watson blinked, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows as he considered the other young man. "All right."

After a few more moments of silence, Sherlock inhaled slowly, pinning him with a slightly condescending look. "That means go away."

"I know what it means." Watson shrugged one shoulder, and Sherlock could see the vestiges of anger not only on his face but in the quick jerk of his shrug. "Thanks, by the way."

He was bewildered a moment, though it only showed in a fractional widening of his eyes before he looked away, back to pressing the tips of his fingers around his swelling eye. Needed an ice pack for it. Of course, at this stage, it wouldn't do much good regardless - it was going to swell up and blacken no matter what he did.

He'd always bruised like a sodding banana, which was precisely why he didn't generally allow anyone to land a hit. Calculating the risks on this particular incident, he'd decided that if he let Thompson give him a black eye then the brute would be at least partially satisfied and go about his business, and so he'd considered the temporary pain worth the long-term payoff.

He hadn't counted on Watson having a _conscience_ and, apparently, bearing the burden of everyone else's conscience, too. How dull.

"That's not how people generally respond to a complete stranger disclosing the infidelity of their girlfriend in a public place," he responded critically, tossing Watson a look that implied he didn't believe the sincerity of it for a moment.

Watson laughed, and Sherlock was a little startled again. It wasn't mirthful by any means, but sort of resigned, and the smile that lingered on his mouth was more than a little self-deprecating. "Probably not, but a bloke usually relies on his mates for that kind of thing, and it wasn't likely that Frank was going to fess up, was it? So, thank you. Better I find out sooner rather than later."

At his side, Watson plucked up a fistful of grass, rubbing his fingers together and sprinkling it back over the lawn. With horror, Sherlock realized he was about to launch into a monologue detailing the ups and downs of his relationship - information that was not only irrelevant but boring and ultimately useless to Sherlock - when Watson just sighed again and fully flopped back onto the grass.

"Besides, can't fault a total stranger for being a better mate than the ones I've got. That was bloody amazing, by the way. How you picked all that apart and realized they were, you know, just from... well, just from her stockings."

Uncomfortable with the praise, partially because he still doubted its sincerity but also because he found that he enjoyed the feeling of _being_ praised rather a little too much, Sherlock shifted where he sat. Cautiously, he lowered his hand to the grass, ignoring the throbbing in his eye. Tone clipped, he pointed out, "You're responding very strangely. You ought to feel more betrayed and angry at your girlfriend's infidelity, given that you are a monogamous straight male interested in a long-term relationship."

Watson snorted a laugh again, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes. "Ex-girlfriend. And am I supposed to sit here and cry about it? Sure, it hurts, and sure, it bothers me, but facts are facts and I can either get on with things or I can wallow in them. Much rather get on, between you and I."

The explanation wasn't entirely satisfactory, given that Sherlock could plainly see that Watson was more than a little upset still, but he could respect the fact that he didn't want to talk about it. Was grateful, even, because _Sherlock_ certainly didn't want to discuss it.

Despite himself, he was a little bit interested in this young man. He was an aberration from the norm, and Sherlock dearly loved picking apart the strange things to discover how they worked.

After another few moments' silence, he said graciously, "You are welcome. In the future, if I deduce that any of your romantic partners are being unfaithful, I will not hesitate to alert you."

Watson lowered his hand a fraction, peering at Sherlock out of only one eye, and then he grinned and offered it. "Thanks. John Watson."

Sherlock stared at his hand as though unsure of whether he should take it, but John didn't withdraw his. He just waited, patiently, until Sherlock grimaced and slid his hand against John's, giving it a brief and brisk shake, before tucking his hands safely away in his pockets once more. "Sherlock Holmes."

"All right, Sherlock." John sat up fully, elbows braced on his knees, and looked across the lawn. "Want me to walk you back to the nurse?"

Sherlock fairly well bristled. "No. I am quite capable of taking care of myself."

Rather than make a snide comment, John simply rose to his feet, nodded, and smiled. "All right, then. See you around. Take care of that eye."

And with that, John Watson was off, with Sherlock Holmes scowling after him in the distance.

Everyone at uni was a blasted, withering, bloody idiot. Fact - disputed, currently under observation, results indicating the initial hypothesis was correct barring the possible exception of one John Watson.

Results pending.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day at lunch, Sherlock was perturbed to have John Watson sit by him. There wasn't a great deal of to-do about the motion, and it wasn't as though he was doing it for the attention of anyone else; he just got his food, stopped by the table that usually held his mates and had a little chat with them, and then meandered over to where Sherlock sat, pushing bits of an apple around his plate with disinterest. He hadn't even had time to be properly confused or snap out an order for John to leave; he wasn't even given the option.

John simply nudged a seat out with his foot, set his tray down, and then got to the business of eating next to Sherlock as though he'd done it every day of his life. Unsure exactly what to make of it, Sherlock stared at him a moment before scooting his chair slightly to the left, eyebrows drawing together faintly as he considered him.

Misplaced guilt? Guilt wasn't on his features. Obligation? He'd attempted to fulfill whatever imaginary obligation he might have the day prior, and Sherlock hadn't allowed it. Pity? He would _slay_ him. Heat rose into his throat at the thought, pride both stealing his breath and forcing him to thrust his chin out. It had better _not_ be pity. Sherlock had never bothered to socialize with anyone inferior to him, and considering all of the other students are uni were exactly that, there was no reason for him to go out of his way to make friendly with them and waste his lunch period making meaningless conversation when he would much rather be left to his own thoughts. It was irritating to be expected to interact, insulting to think that it would be implied by one chance encounter, and he simply wouldn't have it.

(His argument would have stood up better, even in his own head, if John had attempted to speak to him at all. He didn't. He just sat there, ate his food, and for all the world seemed as blissfully peaceful as a cow munching his cud. Ridiculous.)

There was some trickery afoot, and he would find it. Whether it would be a minute twitch of his eyebrow, a flicker of his eyes, or a nervous tapping habit, Sherlock would find something that would betray exactly what John was up to, and then he would spill it out for him and send him packing, just like the rest of them. What he'd said about yesterday, about how amazing it was and how he was impressed (had he actually said he was impressed? It had been implied at least, he knew it had) had been a farce. Obviously this was some sort of elaborate scheme, and obviously John was just waiting for Sherlock to let his guard down and then he would attempt to exploit the freak in front of all of his friends as a great lark. It was pitiably easy to see through. Why was he even bothering? Obvious, obvious.

But John didn't seem that _clever_. Oh, he didn't seem extraordinarily stupid; he was a moron, of course, just like everyone else about, but at least he had seemed tolerable the day before. Miscalculation on Sherlock's part, certainly. It didn't happen often, but he was bound to make small errors in judgment from time to time, because contrary to popular opinion he _was_ human and he _did_ make mistakes. Once in a while. Generally in private, and then he covered his tracks so well that no one ever found out. Hmph.

But John Watson! He'd seemed interesting yesterday, but now he was just a bore. A bore who was taking up space, sitting beside him and eating and not saying a _word_ and it looked so awkward, but what did he care what anyone else thought, anyhow? He didn't. He strictly, certainly, definitely did not. Bugger them and what they thought. Bugger John, too, and how noisily he drank his tea.

He was surprised when he reached for an apple slice and his fingers bumped against his plate; he shifted them about, gaze dropping in mild annoyance, but what he saw stopped him short. Before he'd realized it had strictly happened, Sherlock had been annoyed and distracted enough to eat everything on his tray. That almost never happened, and perversely, he wanted to blame John for it.

John, who was smiling at him out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock felt something crawl up the back of his neck, tiny prickles of sensation and awareness, and he scowled.

Finally, John leaned over, hands laced casually in front of him. "So, that thing you do. Do you do it with everyone?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, balling his hands into fists and resting them atop his knees beneath the table. "I assume you are referring to my deductions."

"Yes!" John smiled, popping a grape into his mouth. "So do you turn it on and off, or..?"

"It isn't a _magic trick_," Sherlock said, shoulders inching up in defense. "It's simple observation. Well, not simple; it's very focused, intent observation. I wouldn't expect you to understand or even care, so I'm at a loss as for why you are bothering, unless.."

He watched the change on John's face, the way the polite smile became somewhat fascinated as Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his voice trailed away. _Assemble the data you have_, he thought, mentally replaying the scene from yesterday. Revelation in public. Betrayal of a friend. Quiet, mature response. Confrontation with the girlfriend (implied but almost certain to have taken place). Confrontation with the friend (accidental; same place same time by chance? by design? insufficient data to determine underlying motivation in John Watson being in the same place as Frank Thompson after meal-time). Dispersal of agitated spectators. Brief conversation. Attempt at socialization today.

He squeezed his hands tighter, tilting his head slightly. Vaguely worried look, and yet anticipating what he had to say. Relaxed posture; feels no threat. Has yet to look away and make covert signals toward the aforementioned group of friends - sincerity? Dedication to a ruse? - yet seems too guileless to be really suspect.

More data required.

"My eye hurts."

Though it was delivered in a flat, emotionless tone, immediately John's entire posture changed. His back snapped straight, shoulders still, and his lips pulled back slightly from his teeth in a brief but telling snarl. For a few tense beats, nothing was said, and then John leaned forward, skin stretched taut over his knuckles.

"I'm sorry. Have you been to see a nurse? Stupid git," he added, turning his head away slightly. Shame? "I promise he won't bully you again."

Ah.

"You can't promise that," Sherlock said, relaxing and looking semi-smug. "No one can, except perhaps Thompson, and I'm not interested in hearing from him. You have _quite_ the hero complex," he added, raising a brow and following the motion with a brief cant of his head.

"Sorry?" John asked, looking slightly embarrassed.

"You barely know me, but you feel personally responsible for the black eye I obtained by fully not minding my own business." Bringing his hands above the table, Sherlock pushed his tray aside and tucked his left into his right, thumbs flat and together. "By all rights, you ought to be annoyed with me at the very least, and yet you're attempting to befriend me - out of obligation? Guilt? Pity, perhaps, though if it is I'll show you shortly how ill-advised that is - which is a thankless task, by the by, as I don't have friends nor do I require them. You have more than a sufficient amount of friends and admirers both, and we have very little in common, so there is no logic behind the attempt unless you are either guilt-ridden and feel it is your duty, or you are hoping to impress your next conquest with your sensitivity and heroic behavior. Either way, hero complex."

A few seconds passed, rather tensely Sherlock thought, until John said, "Well, most of that's true."

"Most?" His voice was as sharp as his glance. "Where did I misspeak?"

John leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "I do barely know you. I do feel a bit responsible for the black eye, as it was my brute of a mate who gave it to you, not that we're on the best terms as it is. I am a bit annoyed with you, but I can't really blame you, so I think it's more that I'm annoyed with the situation."

He frowned, and Sherlock did as well. They made quite a pair, sitting there _frowning_ at one another.

"I've got plenty of mates, some better friends than others. Maybe I do have a bit of a hero complex, yeah... Harry's mentioned it." He rubbed his chin, and his eyes flicked away, back, away. Ah, story there. "I think it's just more that I don't like the idea of seeing people get pushed around for no good reason. Might as well be the one speaking up and doing something about it. I don't think that's particularly heroic, myself. Have you noticed people always use heroic in a bad sense? Like it's silly or something."

Sherlock pursed his lips, huffed out a sigh. "That's because heroes don't exist. If you're _acting_ heroic, it's obviously a farce and an exaggerated one at that."

John didn't seem to like that answer, but before he could reply, Sherlock leaned forward, expression earnest. "You didn't point out where I was incorrect. You misspoke."

"Certainly did not," John said, features dissolving into a pleasant smile. "You were wrong about one thing."

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the table. "And that _is_?"

"You said you don't have friends."

"I don't," he shot back, shoulders coming up, dropping. "I don't require them."

Looking entirely too pleased with himself, John returned, "Then it's a good thing I didn't ask you what you required. Whether you like it or not, you have me."

There it was again - that _feeling_. Like something was crawling up his spine and losing itself somewhere in his hair. "You aren't my friend."

"You don't get a say in it."

Sherlock grew quiet, thoughtful. He tapped his fingers on the table again, an uneven beat that helped him think. Friends, hm? This was absurdly childish. What was he, seven years old? No one simply _did_ this sort of thing unprovoked.

A thought occurred to him, and without really thinking he asked, "Who is Harry?"

John blinked, and whether he was just surprised or a bit disappointed by the question he didn't say. "My sister. Harriet. She doesn't go here, you've probably never met her." There was a certain tightness to the way he said her name that made Sherlock pause.

Harry. Hero complex. Intense aversion to a perceived act of bullying, which by all rights would have been dismissed and ignored by someone like John unless there was a history of such behavior that had a personal impact. He was a rugby player, handsome, popular, friendly. No bullying there. But his _sister_...

"Why do people bully her?" When John jumped a little, Sherlock knew he'd hit the mark. "Do you always ride to the rescue?"

"Personal reasons," John replied, still a bit tightly. "Load of rubbish. People can't be content to just let other people be themselves, can they? And she's not bullied anymore, it was when we were younger. I stood up for her, of course, she's my sister."

The slightly bewildered look on his face had Sherlock asserting critically, "She didn't appreciate it."

"Not a bit of it, know. How'd you work that out?" Rather than look disturbed, he seemed interested again. "About Harry? And... well, all of it?"

"Do you really want to know?" It surprised him, the little sliver of uncertainty that threaded into his tone.

"Absolutely." When Sherlock continued to eye him dubiously, John insisted, "I think it's fascinating, and more than clever by half."

A little bit warmed by the praise, Sherlock smiled faintly, ignoring the fact that as he did, he angled his knees toward John beneath the table. "Well, of course it is. All right, listen carefully, because I detest repeating myself..."


	3. Chapter 3

It was vaguely disconcerting how easily they fell into a routine. Sherlock wasn't used to depending on the presence of someone else to lift his mood, so the fact that he found himself looking _forward_ to when John would drop by the labs after practice, say, or slide into a seat beside him in the library, well. It was unfamiliar and it was a bit disturbing, one some levels, but Sherlock had come to realize that there was simply no shaking him.

Well. That wasn't entirely true. If he _really_ wanted to get rid of John Watson, he knew that he could manage it. He didn't have a reputation on campus as being a sociopath for nothing; it was largely why he was left alone in the first place, and the few who had decided to attempt to "save" him had all been summarily turned away a little worse for their efforts. Sherlock wasn't in the business of being _saved_, and certainly didn't want to be _changed_; he was fine as he was, and anyone who thought otherwise wasn't worth his time. The thought of being distracted by the mundane, petty occupations of the average person his age was so insulting that he almost found himself at a loss for words as to how to express his dissatisfaction.

And yet.

And yet he looked forward to John. Sherlock comforted himself with the knowledge that there of course _had_ to be an exception, and as far as exceptions went, John wasn't so bad. It wasn't as though they spent their every waking moment together. Far from it, actually, given John had rugby and a great deal more friends than simply _Sherlock_, and Sherlock had the lab and his own pursuits to attend to. However, Sherlock found that while the satisfaction of conducting his own experiments and discovering startling new things was still very worthwhile on its own, the entire process gained a little something when he shared the results with John.

Not that John understood even three-fourths of what he was trying to tell him, even on a good day. For someone who hoped to go into the medical field, he really was ridiculously out of his element - though he supposed there was _some_ truth to the fact that John was at uni to learn, and therefore couldn't be expected to know everything straightaway. (It sounded like an excuse to Sherlock, who pursued his interests avidly and single-mindedly until he knew all there was to know, but John wasn't like him. He was a rugby player and a sociable person and generally just _normal_.)

And yet Sherlock enjoyed his company anyhow. It was difficult to pinpoint the exact reason, which Sherlock had deduced _was_ the reason that he liked him so well; John seemed so cut and dry and simple, but he surprised him. There were depths there, interesting, fascinating depths that he couldn't put his finger on unless he was somehow provoking his newly found friend, which was an exciting and interesting process in and of itself. John tried so very hard not to lose his temper most of the time, especially when it would have been _really_ justified (see: his girlfriend shagging his friend) and yet he had no qualms with throwing a fit over something as silly as his teacups being used as planters. He was, at least temporarily, fascinating to Sherlock, who had decided that until he unraveled the mystery of John Watson it would do him no great harm to consider him a friend.

The only problem was actually _unraveling_ him. It, the mystery. Sherlock had been at it for about two weeks and he was still no closer to discovering what actually motivated John's behavior than he had been when he'd started, though he had amassed a great deal of data. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to record his data in notebooks as he would have preferred - Sebastian had curbed him of that habit very effectively his first week on campus, and rather humiliatingly, although he was loathe to admit it - and so it was all bustling about in his head, a merry cacophony of observations and experiments and trials that made no sense when there were loose and free-form, but were slowly slotting together into a picture of John Watson.

"You know, blokes are going to get the wrong idea, Sherlock."

Gaze snapping to John's face, centering and clearing once he held it in profile, Sherlock asked, "I beg your pardon?"

Sprawled out on the grass with all the boneless grace of a cat, John simply inhaled deeply, chest rising underneath his grass-stained tee shirt. Sherlock followed the motion briefly, and then back to his face, tucking his fist under his chin as he examined his friend, paying only half attention to John's words as he casually commented, "Me, lying on the grass, exhausted and dirty from a match. You, boring holes into me with your eyes."

After a beat, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Better to be boring holes in you with my eyes than with the alternative."

Far from being bothered, John asked lazily, "And what's the alternative?"

"Corkscrew. Drill. Some other implement of torture." Sherlock shrugged, fingers slipping under his chin as he did. "Use your imagination, John. If you believe the rumors, I have _quite _the arsenal of devices at the ready for when I finally 'snap' and dismember you for the offense of being my friend."

Though it was all casually delivered, there was a sliver somewhere, deep in his stomach, that spoke of unsettled. Sherlock ignored it, as he always did, because the opinions of others did not _matter_. People would talk, and they would _always_ talk, and as was the habit with ignorant people, they had a lot to say that they fancied was much more important than it actually was. Sherlock was above the gossip of his peers for the most part, but even so, he found himself watching John surreptitiously.

"Load of bollocks," John said firmly, not even bothering to open his eyes, much less stir from his position. "Small minds create small thoughts, and all that. Which I never should have said, because that's going to please you entirely too much."

It did please Sherlock, and perversely, so did the fact that John had known it would. It irritated him on some level that John seemed to be able to effortlessly read him at times, even if those times were few and far between; there was a sort of awareness about him that defied logic, was apparently effortless, and was endlessly puzzling to Sherlock. He knew of no one else with a talent, he supposed, for being able to understand the nuances of people's personalities. Oh, Sherlock could gather data, catalog it, and use prior interactions to reason out a future response easily enough, but John simply jumped in with both feet and blustered his way through interaction until he had a rhythm with people. It was disconcerting. It was absolutely contrary to all of Sherlock's methods. It was fascinating, and it was somewhat maddening.

He almost wanted to know how he did it as much as he wanted to completely tear apart his methods at their base and prove his own superior.

John had risen onto his elbows, a bit of grass sticking out of the tufts of his hair at the back of his head, and Sherlock snorted. However he'd come into his methods, it was obvious that John Watson didn't make people a _study_, as Sherlock did; he was far too unpretentious and honest to attempt to deeply understand people when they wanted nothing of it, as in the case of Sherlock, and yet he somehow managed to endear himself despite efforts to the contrary. It was inborn, then, which ought to have been obvious, because John was - he was Sherlock's friend, but he was really _simple_ in most respects, which seemed to be entirely a contradiction in terms (Sherlock did not like simple people. He detested simple people. He also did not have _friends_.) but somehow it fit, perfectly.

And all of this was just _slightly_ too sentimental for Sherlock's comfort. Hmph.

Turning his nose up, he said carelessly, "That sort of attitude is going to have you very surprised one day when I have my psychotic break."

John just grinned, teasingly, and asked, "Aren't you the one who tried to tell me, very comfortingly, that you're a high-functioning sociopath?"

Despite himself, there was a sudden rush of energy at the base of his skull, a flurry of prickles and activity. He could only deduce it was a manifestation of pleasure.


	4. Chapter 4

This recent attachment to John, Sherlock had been reliably informed, would be the undoing of him.

Of course he disputed it; as though he would allow anyone to have the singular sort of power and influence over him that would imply they could get at the base of him, much less impact him negatively on a long-term basis. The very idea of it was absurd, preposterous enough that it made him smile; not kindly, nor happily, but as he shifted slides beneath his microscope, he had a moment of cold, subdued humor. As Mycroft would say, the likelihood of anyone getting beneath his skin was just as slim as him having anything resembling a _real_ friend - and it was all his own fault, as well, given how harshly and thoroughly he pushed away anyone who attempted to get close.

Not that many did. For all the masses were unimaginative and stupid, they were remarkably quick to detect their presence as unwanted, and rather than doggedly pursue a friendship that required _work_, they often quickly turned to censure and ridicule. That was fine by Sherlock's standards, as it left him well enough alone for the majority of the time, but there was no denying that it gave Mycroft a... smug bit of satisfaction.

Mouth drawing down at the corners, he exhaled slowly through his nose. He did _hate_ to give Mycroft satisfaction. This, he told himself, above all other reasons, was why he was actually somewhat looking forward to his brother inflicting his infuriating, largely unwelcome presence on Sherlock; he could produce John: simple, normal, nigh unflappable John, as proof positive that he had a friend. Oh, the look on Mycroft's face would be priceless, at least once he realized that John wasn't some thick sod that he'd palmed some money off to in order to deceive his brother. When he realized the friendship was genuine (or as genuine as a friendship with Sherlock could become) he would be forced to spend a fair bit of time eating crow.

Wouldn't be a hardship. Mycroft did _so_ love to eat. He wondered how many pounds he'd gained since his last visit? He adjusted the fine focus, watching the paramecium blur in and out of distinction, and wagered on close to ten pounds. Life was stressful, and the holidays were approaching, after all; Mummy would be, well, being Mummy. And Mycroft, being the elder brother and the one who gave a damn about those sorts of things, would be bending over backward to try to please her.

So unfortunate that he was a stress eater. He could barely contain his gleeful smile at the thought.

The door to the lab opened and closed, but Sherlock didn't bother to look up. There was no class period scheduled, and because he was generally on good terms with the science department as a whole no one really cared if he utilized the equipment. He was _very_ careful with it, and when he wasn't careful he disposed of the evidence with enough skill to keep his name (relatively) clean, so there was no worry.

"Would you pass me a pen?" He asked, drawing his lower lip under the top row of his teeth as he adjusted the focus further, bringing the vacuole into stunning clarity. There was so much here - such a beautiful, complex, fascinating arrangement of organelles - and yet it was all contained inside one cell. So easily overlooked. Such a waste when it was.

The voice that responded to him didn't belong to John, and for reasons he was not willing to examine (pointless effort at the time; better things to focus on) his stomach pitched, settled somewhere approximately three centimeters below where it ought to have rested.

"Do you ever leave the lab? I mean, honestly."

"Sebastian." He flicked his gaze toward his classmate, expression falling into the detached lines of politeness that he reserved for Sebastian and his cohorts. It wasn't out of respect for them - the drudgery was simply over faster when he didn't react much. "Do you need something?"

Sebastian Wilkes, while Sherlock's age and one of the few people who spoke to him regularly without attempting to pound him, was not Sherlock's friend. Not really. He had considered him a friend in a peripheral sense, as Sebastian was one of the first people he'd met on campus and they'd managed to interact without either of them willing bodily harm on the other, but he'd come to realize that was a poor basis for a friendship. When he had John to compare others to, he saw how immensely lacking his interpersonal relationships had been prior.

He wasn't certain if that was a good thing or not. He would never advocate willful ignorance, but then, he didn't really _require_ friendship, and now that he knew the majority of his relationships were insufficient, he was faced with an aggravating situation. He could either improve all of his relationships to have a more well-rounded, satisfactory collection (dull, time-consuming, not worth the effort, would only result in ridicule and suspicion) or he could focus on the strongest relationship he had at the moment and ensure that it did not fail (the logical route, given that it would take the least amount of time and effort on his part). His choice was obvious.

Sebastian rested his hip against the edge of the table, arms crossed casually. "We're going for a bender. Interested?"

_Ugh_, he thought, which was probably the most inelegant and in_eloquent_ thing that had crossed his mind in weeks. Why Sebastian insisted on inviting him to these was beyond him; he never enjoyed himself, and never added anything to the atmosphere. In fact, his very presence was always unforgivable, given that he never indulged in drink and could later recall with perfect clarity exactly what had happened (and who had shagged whom) during their drunken escapades. Having a long memory was apparently a damning offense, and surely Sebastian knew that.

Eying him shrewdly, Sherlock decided that he certainly _did_ know that. More than likely, Sebastian was eager to have Sherlock along for his observational skills; gathering blackmail material? Were he a betting man, he would take the odds. He would not be _used_ as a tool, or a party favor, whichever his _friend_ intended.

"Thank you, but no. I can think of exactly four hundred and twenty-nine different ways I would rather spend my evening." So saying, he scooted back, chair scraping along the linoleum. Well, that had been an ugly noise. "If there's nothing else?"

Sebastian laughed, and the noise was _grating_; God, it was grating. "I wish you were joking, but I don't want to provoke you into actually listing all of them off. Though I do wonder..."

Sherlock's shoulders tensed, fractionally.

"How many of those involve John Watson? Thick as thieves lately, aren't you?" Sebastian, for all he was an arrogant, simple-minded sod, was remarkably keen on just where to hit a person to make it sting. His clever way of phrasing things politely, sometimes even as an indulgent joke, generally kept him in others' good graces rather than the opposite, but Sherlock saw right through it. "That's nice. Watson is a stand-up fellow. Very shocking about that girlfriend of his, poor bloke."

He didn't know precisely why, but the idea of Sebastian speaking about John made him uneasy. Uneasy? Perhaps a bit... angry. Yes, a little bit annoyed, a little bit disgusted. What right did Sebastian have to comment on any part of John Watson's life, personal or otherwise? They didn't even talk, moved in circles so wholly separate that it was almost a point of pride for Sherlock, though he couldn't have said why.

Honestly, all this uncertainty regarding John Watson was really starting to agitate him.

"Yes, well." Sherlock rose, brushing his hands down the front of his shirt as he did. "We're friends."

"Friends?" Sebastian asked, with a pompous eyebrow arch. God, even the man's voice was oily; how had Sherlock ever even marginally considered him a friend?

"Yes. Friends." Irritated, Sherlock brushed past his classmate, reaching for his peacoat. He jabbed his arms through the sleeves, mouth tight and petulant, as Sebastian chuckled. "It is humanly possible, Sebastian, for me to have a normal friendship. I simply don't indulge often."

Pausing by the doorway, he cast one last look at Sebastian's smug face, and a horrible feeling rose up in his throat. Before he could spew venom and purge himself of it, however, the door swung open, and none other than the topic of their conversation come bustling in.

"Sorry, got held up, you ready to-ah, sorry, am I interrupting?" John's brow furrowed, eyes passing between Sherlock and Sebastian before settling on the former.

Mortification swelled in place of his previous ire, because even if John wasn't very observant, surely even he couldn't miss the rigid set of Sherlock's posture, the tenseness of his jaw, the disconnected angle between his hips and shoulders. It would be obvious he was somewhat bothered, and he hated admitting that, hated being on display for even a moment. _Damn _Sebastian, and damn John for his inopportune arrival.

"Oh no, we were just finished. Tried inviting Sherlock out, but, well." Sebastian smiled at John, thin lips stretched over disproportionately large teeth. Needed orthodontic work. "You know how it is."

Surprisingly, though the move was subtle, John angled himself toward Sherlock; in fact, Sherlock doubted he even noticed he did it. "Well, of course he can't go; we've plans. Nice of you to offer, though," he added, smiling with far too many teeth showing.

Not a normal smile. John's smiles were subtle, generally slow-building and only ever really showing the top row of teeth. This, then, was not a kind smile, but that much was obvious, wasn't it; the muscles around his eyes were tight, and his right hand was halfway balled to a fist.

Sebastian simply shrugged, and Sherlock muttered, "Let's be off, John."

To Sebastian and Sherlock's mutual surprise, John reached out and curled his fingers around Sherlock's elbow, leading him out of the labs and into the hallway.

Though Sherlock was a bit pleased, he was also embarrassed, and that prompted him to reclaim his arm and turn his nose up. "I know the way, John."

After a few moments of awkward silence, John said, "Sorry."

Disappointment furled in his stomach, but he chose to ignore it. Instead, rather haughtily, he asked, "For?"

John's eyes flicked to Sherlock's face, but he just smiled a bit and slipped his hands in his pockets. "Saying we're busy for the evening? Leading you out by the elbow? I didn't mean to be rude, I just... don't like that prat."

Sherlock snorted, tucking his face into his shoulder to hide the smile blooming. "Well, you're welcome to your opinions," was all he said, which wasn't really an expression of gratitude.

John smiled, though, so Sherlock thought he got the idea.


	5. Chapter 5

John had been badgering Sherlock to attend one of his rugby matches for weeks. Well, he said _badgering_; John had indicated a time or two that his presence would not be amiss, and Sherlock had informed him in no uncertain terms that he had plenty of other things to do that took precedence to watching him throw himself about a field and muddy up his clothing. Rather than press the issue, John simply let it slide, going about his business as usual and dropping by to spend time with Sherlock after he was finished. Perhaps that was the reason why Sherlock found himself without a great deal to do one afternoon, and afternoon conveniently located during one of the times when John was practicing rugby. It certainly wasn't orchestrated that way, and it was more than likely that if he'd had anything else to do at the time he would not have attended it, but the nice thing about John was that he wouldn't assume that Sherlock was going out of his way to please him.

(How could he? They were friends, but Sherlock was still very much the same as he'd ever been, as far as he was concerned. John certainly gave him enough glances with lifted eyebrows to imply that his social skills hadn't _really_ improved.)

Comforted by the notion that his actions wouldn't be misconstrued to mean more than they did, he bundled himself in his favorite coat, twisted his scarf around his neck, and made his way to the rugby pitch. There weren't many about aside from the team, which was to be expected as it wasn't a match; girlfriends here and there, though half of them were too busy texting on their mobiles to pay much attention to the players. He could easily see why they were preoccupied, however, as the lack of competition on the field rendered the entire experience completely pointless for anyone but the rugby team.

Perhaps his initial decision to attend a practice rather than a match had been ill-conceived. Less people for him to be annoyed with, certainly, but without a great deal of activity, he could see this being a tremendous waste of his time.

Mouth flattening into an unmistakable grimace, he crossed swiftly to an unoccupied bench, perching himself at the end of it to avoid dirtying his coat as much as possible. It made for an uncomfortable seat, but he didn't expect himself to be there for long. He laced his hands between his knees, tapping his thumbs together in a mindless pattern as his eyes roved across the field and he sought his friend. Not difficult overall; John was slightly shorter than the average man his age, and that aside, Sherlock could probably identify him confidently from within twenty meters if he had to. Well, perhaps that was pushing it a _little, _but John did have a distinctive walk and frame that he had made it a point to remember. He hardly wanted to mistake anyone else for his friend, after all.

He didn't really understand what was going on, which was a given, because he considered rugby a general waste of time and didn't want to clutter his head with the intricate workings of it. It was important to John, which merited consideration long enough to observe that it involved two teams and a ball, and he supposed the reason that they moved the ball about the field was to gain points for an eventual victory, but aside from that he could not have cared less.

It was a bit chilly, which he supposed the players didn't mind due to their physical exertion, but Sherlock was not exactly pleased by the breeze. He frowned, tucking his chin against his chest and pulling his scarf over the lower half of his face, and supposed that would have to do until he eventually got frustrated enough that he couldn't stand being there any longer.

As he watched, the group coalesced and then split in half, moving to opposite sides and apparently preparing to face one another. He cocked his head a bit, tracking John as he placed a hand firmly against one shoulder and swung his arm in a wide arc - must have been bothering him, so why did he bother continuing to practice? the chances of him further injuring himself were high, especially in the event of actual confrontation at this point of the practice. - and found himself leaning forward a bit in interest. He hadn't expected to see them doing anything but running drills, which was what John said they generally occupied themselves with during these practices, but it would be just like him to gloss over the _interesting_ part of the event.

"Who are you here for?"

Without waiting for a proper invitation, a girl a couple years older than him seated herself by him, adjusting the sleeves of her jacket as she did. He tore his gaze away from John to give her a quick once-over, expression closing down into cool disinterest as he did. Average height, judging by the length of the arm and leg visible to him; not interested in him, as she hadn't angled her body toward him, so there was that at least. She had shoulder-length honey-brown hair and a friendly smile, and was dressed sensibly and in muted colors, though she had a pair of dangling earrings that Sherlock supposed hinted at her whimsical side.

Boring.

Without bothering to answer, Sherlock turned back to the field, bringing his shoulders up fractionally to indicate he was disinterested in talking. Unfortunately, the girl was not adept in reading body language - that could be the only reasonable assumption to make, after all, as she continued speaking to him pleasantly.

"I'm here to see John, John Watson. Aren't you his friend? He's told me about you, you know." Sherlock's eyes snapped to her face, and the half-smile there betrayed her; ah, she _was_ a little clever. "It's a pleasure to meet you finally."

Feeling strangely proprietary for reasons he couldn't quite explain, Sherlock narrowed his gaze, thrusting his chin out from the safety of his scarf. Calmly, and just a bit coldly, he said, "Oh? I've never heard of you."

It might have been a bit beneath him, but he was feeling peculiarly threatened, and he disliked having people sprung on him suddenly. He couldn't be certain if this woman was attempting genuinely friendly overtures, or if she had been sent by one of John's rugby mates to make a fool of him; he wasn't willing to take any chances and embarrass himself, whatever the case. The thought flickered through his mind for just a moment that perhaps _John_ was behind it - that he'd been casually endearing himself to Sherlock for weeks, only to expose him in front of all of his friends at a practice (or worse, a match) once the opportunity presented itself - but he dismissed the idea almost as soon as it occurred to him.

If he felt a little bit sick to his stomach at the thought, that was his own business, and he didn't care to examine it.

"John said you'd be like that, and not to mind you." Apparently determined beyond all reason, the girl added, "I'm Sarah. Sarah Sawyer."

"Do you do that all the time?" Sherlock demanded, lip curled unattractively.

"Do what?" Sarah asked, blinking.

"_Sarah_," he imitated, his voice more than a fair likeness of hers. "_Sarah Sawyer. John, John Watson_. It's needlessly repetitious."

To Sherlock's surprise (and somewhat annoyance) Sarah only laughed. "Pardon me for offending your delicate sensibilities, then."

Inhaling deeply, he straightened his back and glowered at her. "I don't have _delicate sensibilities_." Even as he said it, he realized that he'd only reinforced that particular opinion of hers, and his expression darkened further. "You are simply irritating."

The silence between them was stretched taut, but not for long; Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but was preempted by a cheer, a chant, and the rugby team dispensing. Apparently thinking better of whatever she had to say, she turned and lifted her hand, waving it above her head. "John!"

Studiously ignoring Sarah, Sherlock firmly pointed his knees toward his approaching friend, unable to quite rid himself of the tension in his face and shoulders. His hands, fingers folded beneath his palms and pressed tight to his knees, itched to fuss with something, anything, but he wouldn't allow it. His unrest would be obvious enough to John as it stood; there was no need to make the man overly concerned.

Coming to a halt in front of them, his face smeared in filth but the smile beneath it unmistakable, John exclaimed, "You came!"

It was difficult to tell which of them he was referring to, and so Sherlock remained uncomfortably silent.

"Didn't expect to see you," he added, nodding to Sherlock. "How'd you like it, then? The practice?"

All of the adjectives he would have normally used whirled in his mind, each as apt and tempting as the last, but he could see Sarah watching him out of the corner of his eye. Undoubtedly _she_ had found it stimulating and interesting, and more than likely she attended practices regularly; John would have acknowledged her presence more readily had she been an aberration from the norm. Did she go to his matches as well? Were they - and he grimaced - dating, perish the thought?

John hadn't _mentioned_ it, but it stood to reason that he would acknowledge that Sherlock found such things dull and would not want to be informed. And while that was normally the case, it was absolutely untrue in this respect. He was keenly interested in John's romantic liaisons, if only because he knew his friend to have poor taste in women and he wanted to be able to head off any more disastrous couplings if he could help it. That was what _friends_ did, after all.

Disliking how defensive and paranoid his thoughts were becoming, he finally settled for, "It was interesting. I would like to attend a true match to solidify my opinion on the experience. You seemed very in your element," he added, tucking his right shoulder closer to his body as he did. (It had the benefit of physically excluding Sarah from the conversation a little more, and he flattered himself that only he would be quite aware of that advantage.)

The pleasure this inspired in John was near comical and Sherlock would have assumed it to be purposefully exaggerated had it been anyone else. He flushed slightly, unconsciously drawing himself to his full height and damn near preening; here, obviously, was the key to John's ego. He would file that away and utilize it properly at a later date, likely when he'd managed to thoroughly get himself on John's bad side. It was only inevitable, after all, given his personality, and he wanted to have some sort of safety net in place to slip back into John's good graces. It was important to him, he realized, which was almost as uncomfortable as the fact that he was very nearly jealous of the girl beside him.

Ugh, she was still sitting there.

"Good game, John," was all she said, reaching out with her hand fisted. Bizarrely, John mimicked her move before knocking their hands together, and Sherlock watched the exchange with a sliver of fascination that couldn't quite be dwarfed by his annoyance.

"Thanks. Getting better all the time. Oi, but I ache." He sounded ridiculously pleased by it. "Going to hit the showers and grab a bite. Hungry?"

His eyes passed between both of them. Sherlock tensed, but Sarah simply said, "Study group, can't." and he relaxed again.

"I suppose I could make time," Sherlock said graciously, unaware that Sarah's lips were twitching up into a smile behind his back.

"Excellent," John said, casting a warm smile down at Sherlock. Absurdly, even beneath the flecks of mud and what Sherlock could now identify as a days' worth of stubble, his stomach did a strange little flop in response to having that particular look aimed directly at him.

And even though that was not good, Sherlock found himself hesitantly smiling, just a tiny bit, before he hid his mouth behind his scarf again.


End file.
